


Glutton

by witchoil



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Aftercare, Cloaca, Dirty Talk, Domination, Dubious Consent, F/M, Found Family, Gangbang, Inappropriate Use of a Vibroblade, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Pre-Canon, Sex Pollen, Snowballing, Spitroasting, Verbal Humiliation, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchoil/pseuds/witchoil
Summary: What’s a good merc to do when it becomes obvious that his knight commander is desperate to get fucked but too proud to ask?Indulge him.Obviously.





	Glutton

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re not a fan of Kylo Ren getting viciously but lovingly gang-banged by the closest things he has to friends, we just have really different readings of the character, I guess. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I say this every time but this is definitely the worst thing I’ve ever made, this is the one that’s gonna send me to hell. What can I say, I just really, really love truly disgusting people propping each other up on their awfulness and having a good laugh about it.
> 
> This is technically all H's fault. Also it's unbeta'd because I sat on it so long I thought it was gonna burn me if I had to wait longer to post. Edits may come in the future as they always do. 
> 
> Knights of Ren are loosely based off of the [concept art for them](http://78.media.tumblr.com/a0795bfdcaec4e2c047662252dd73092/tumblr_o3l8xrAUk21uo248ro6_1280.jpg). If you’re like me and like visual aides, the comparisons are as follows: 
> 
> Fett/Vasch Ren -> The Rogue  
> Juris Ren -> The Armory  
> Antur Ren -> The Monk  
> Pictus Ren -> The Sniper  
> Tel-Kor Ren -> The Heavy

Vasch Ren sits across from the man he is forced to call master and indulges in a private smile. Wearing masks as they are, Kylo Ren can't see the upward tug of his lips.

He thinks he is all-powerful, commanding. He thinks he is inviolable, his own thoughts secret and unknowable.

But Vasch Ren knows better. And _that_ , the Master of the Knights of Ren would know soon, too.

The shuttle in which the three of them sit lurches as it docks and begins to power down. To the right of Kylo Ren is Juris, their armory and resident explosives expert. She sits with her legs apart, elbows on knees, hands interlaced between, and watches Vasch Ren through the visor of her helmet searchingly.

He watches back, nods slightly. She tosses her head and reclines, message silently received.

“So, Fett,” Juris says, “did you enjoy our little trip into the wild? You haven’t been off-world in a while.” Her voice is roughened and digitized by her vocoder, like a worn-out droid sucking down a cigarette.

Vasch Ren tilts his head to side. “I liked it fine,” he says, blunt and bored and hoping to discourage Juris from saying anything further.

Among them, he alone uses a second name, too good to pass up. The first time she saw him bare-faced, Juris Ren gasped in shock then dissolved into hysterical laughter.

His face is unmistakable, one of the most recognizable in the galaxy. Statistically-speaking, it's also the most common. Whether it's because he's a genuine clone or Boba Fett’s bastard, even he doesn’t really know. Juris had found this all the more hilarious.

So when she learned he called himself Fett, she caught on and wouldn’t let it go, no matter how much their master scolded her. _You think this is an Order?_ She taunted him. _This is a mercenary corps. I can call him whatever I karking want._ Kylo Ren bristled at that, of course, but she was right. If he wanted to, he could make her settle up and probably kill her in the process.

Instead, they enjoyed ongoing repartee that settled somewhere between tense and openly hostile.

Kylo Ren coughs a laugh through his vocoder. “Exceptional,” he says, derision coloring the word. “I didn’t know you were dabbling in talk therapy these days, Juris. Do you think you could squeeze in some time for me?”

“Fuck off, Ren.”

The ship hisses. The three of them stand in unison as the hatch begins to lower.

“Fabulous idea,” Kylo spits. He shoves past her, stomping down the ramp like a bantha in heat.

Fett clicks his tongue. “Cranky.”

“You got his medicine?”

“With all due respect,” Fett says, “fuck off, Ren.”

Juris laughs with a harsh, metallic barking. She turns on quiet feet and pads down the ramp of the shuttle. Back to her rooms and her chem projects, probably, distilling spice for Pictus and caustics for the monk to drip on his favorite prisoners.

Arriving back in his own cell at last, Fett removes his helmet and pulls a small canister from within his jacket. It is an aerosol dispenser activated by his fingerprint. The thing itself is old and unassuming in the extreme, but it will get the job done. For all the hell he’d been putting them through, it _better_.

Inside the canister swirls a thin green dust of spores from a rare plant from some far-off jungle moon. Fett doesn’t know the details and frankly doesn’t give a shit, much more concerned with its uses. When inhaled, the spores are a powerful aphrodisiac, known to produce sensitivity across the body, stimulate sexual appetite, and increase stamina. Common knowledge and hearsay both suggest that it ought not be ingested.

Fett divests himself of his armor and battle gear, but tucks the canister into the pocket of his trousers. Telling himself, _not necessarily, but just in case_.

The dark space of the hall opens into an equally dark atrium, a joke of a common area sat roughly between the Knights’ cells and various working spaces. Their compound is underground, chipped out of sharp, slate grey rock. The whole thing echoes so bad that sometimes Fett thinks it’ll drive him insane.

Then, of course, there are the dreams.

Fett considers himself about as sensitive to the Force as the average dead dog, but these dreams are _loud_ , echoed in this place where, legend has it, a Sith cult once flourished before burning itself to the ground.

Now all of them share nightmares like a normal group of criminals might share contacts. _Which one did you get last night?_ One would ask another over caf and protein gruel in the morning. _The flaying?_

And the other would probably nod.

 _I did, too,_ the first one might say, _dreamed I was doing it_.

And then the other would curse the first out, saying, _then next time kill me first, would you, you fucking sadist?_

That was what passed for an excuse to laugh between them: _You giving or you getting these days?_

At the moment, Pictus Ren is working at something in the middle of the floor, messing with the circuitry of a massive sniper rifle like it needs any maintenance. The First Order is a bureaucratic nightmare, but the Knights of Ren have as much money for equipment as any of them could demand in their wildest spice-fueled dreams. Nothing delights Pictus more than spitting in the face of that generosity by constantly fucking with the new equipment.

He is unmasked as he works, looking rangy and dangerous in the layered rags he keeps as casual clothes. His deep-set grey eyes are intent on the terminal he clutches in a large, thin hand. He chews on something, but Fett does not care to speculate on what it is. From the looks of him, he hasn’t been out of his cell in a few days. Probably holed up beating off to old mission tapes.

Fett could hear them, sometimes, echoing down the halls, the sounds of distant but familiar volleys of blaster fire mixed with hurried, quiet panting and the distorted hum of Kylo Ren’s lightsaber. Those -- the ones where a Ren got up, close, and personal with a target -- were Pictus’ favorites. And for that reason, he mostly didn’t do close quarters combat. It got him hard. And that got him distracted.

Along a wall, their berserker, Tel-Kor Ren, leans back in a chair examining a medical holo-chart. Aside from Juris, he is their only other non-human team-member: a tall, muscular zabraki man full of cybernetic and chemical enhancements. His left arm and the bottom portion of his left leg are artificial, a fact he does not attempt to hide with synthflesh. He leaves the alloy of the limbs exposed, and coupled with his horns, gnarled and grey from prolonged steroid use and helmet-wearing, they make a lasting impression upon anyone unlucky enough to see them.

The holo-chart is of his own body, small red spots of pulsing light indicating mechanisms Fett assumes are overdue for collapse. This is his weekly requisition, then, when he will order the necessary implements from the First Order med corps to perform what has become a routine session of self-surgery. Their fifth and final member, Antur Ren, offers to help each time, and each time Tel-Kor refuses him. _You think I’m stupid enough to go under a torturer’s blade, Ren?_ He says whenever Antur asks. The spat is perfectly scripted after nearly four years together. _Not fucking likely._

Without looking up, Tel-Kor addresses Fett in a low, pleasant voice. “He’s destroying whatever is set up in the gymnasium. Didn’t even bother to go to his cell. Didn’t realize it went that bad.”

Fett rolls his eyes. “It didn’t.”

“Hmm,” says Tel-Kor.

Pictus laughs, a strangled sound shaking his ropy frame.

“We’ll see,” says Fett.

He goes to the small mess hall and makes himself a cup of protein slop. Juris, perched on a counter, greets him.

“Antur is with a prisoner,” she says. He’ll be a couple levels up, then, playing his favorite game of hide the scalpel with someone who scarcely deserves it.

Fett downs the shake. “Tell him to finish.”

“Tell him yourself.” She picks at her sharp, reptilian teeth and grins at him, the expression half-grimace on her bluish, soft-leather face.

Fett pitches his cup into the return bin. “Stop being a child,” he says. “Tell him to finish.”

Sarcasm drips from her black tongue as she says, “Oh _aye_ lieutenant, will do.” She wipes a finger over a scale at her temple, pressing it down like an errant hair.

“Try to contain your excitement. And stop acting like you’re not about to have a good fucking night.”

Juris blinks black, irisless eyes. Her second set of lids swipe across them in what Fett recognizes as an expression of pleasant surprise, like a human’s brows jumping up.

“He acts like a brat, he gets treated like a brat.” Fett passes through the door, turning towards the gymnasium.

Juris snorts and bares her incisors at him as he goes. “He never stops acting like a brat.”

 

\--

Fett finds, before even entering the gymnasium, that Tel-Kor was not exaggerating. He can hear a rhythmic clanking from the hall that can be nothing else but metal on metal, a crazed attack on an inanimate object.

Sure enough, Ren clutches a metal quarterstaff and swings it like a man possessed, attempting to demolish a ballistic target. The target makes a hollow sound with each strike that fills the room.

He has strewn his outer layers and armor on the floor in a trail of twisted synthcloth like a child rather than a warrior. Fett sneers as he tracks through it.

But dressed in light leggings and an undershirt as he is now, Kylo Ren certainly does _look_ like a warrior. At least, Fett thinks, from this angle.

Ren raises his arms and the muscle encasing his shoulder blades pulls taut triangles into his upper back. His shoulders themselves are hard, scarred canon-balls of muscle and bone. They taper under the joint and slightly overlap with his biceps, which flare out below. His arms compliment his thick chest; strong, but soft enough that the muscle quivers in the wake of every downstroke. Then, below all that, a comparatively trim waist, wider and more solid than the average man’s but made almost delicate by the expanse of his shoulders. Then the hips, and the thighs that seem to go on for days.

Fett must admit, clearing his throat to get Kylo Ren’s attention, that he does not mind looking his fill. Even if the man is destroying First Order property as he does. In fact, Fett might like that part most of all.

“Master Ren,” he says, a begrudging, official address.

Kylo whirls, nearly striking Fett off his feet with the quarterstaff. He bellows, “What?”

Fett does not rise to the bait. At this point he doesn’t even blink. “I’m requesting the evening off, after our debrief.”

Kylo’s face contorts. “You want some time to relax, Vasch? Feel like I’ve been working you too hard?” Rounded, crooked teeth show behind his curling lips, making for a less-than-intimidating snarl. It is plain that he is not feeling generous today.

No, if Fett had to guess, ‘pissy’ is more likely.

Fine, then. He could piss back.

“Do I look overworked to you?”

“Since you ask, you certainly don’t look like you’ve challenged yourself today.” Ren mops his brow with the back of a black-gloved hand. Too lazy or too vain to remove them with tche rest of his gear. “Spar with me. Then we’ll see about your evening off.”

Fett nearly rolls his eyes. This is juvenile, at best. Blatantly flirtatious at worst. “So this is a school-ground disagreement? Let me off or don’t. I don’t have the fucking time, Ren.”

Kylo extends a hand toward the equipment rack across the room and calls a second quarterstaff to it. No matter how many times he has seen it, Fett still finds the action uncanny. His master offers him the staff. “You will make the fucking time, _Fett_.” He spits the command as though it were a challenge, as though Fett could possibly say no.

As he wraps an olive hand around the durasteel staff, Fett makes up his mind. There will be no debriefing, but he will be getting his goddamned night off.

They fall into a familiar sparring pattern, starting in a high stance and extending themselves out. Fett pivots, steps, brings his staff down towards Kylo’s flank. Kylo blocks low, slides his own staff up to bite at Fett’s knuckles. He pivots again. More blows, the occasional unspoken taunt or tease of one body entering the other’s space. They are not quite sparring, not quite dueling.

Whatever it is, Fett is sick of it.

He lets himself go down, twisting on a knee so that he hits the mat face-down. As he falls, he draws the canister from his pocket. He holds it in his right hand, arm trapped beneath his chest, hand near his left shoulder.

Ren comes down on him like a ton of bricks, hips pressing cruelly into Fett’s back, knees and thighs squeezing his ribcage. Ren knows how much he hates this, which is precisely why Fett has let him do it.

“Not as strong as you thought you were?” He presses the quarterstaff lightly into the back of Fett’s neck and Fett chokes as his chin slides forward. His adam’s apple bobs against the floor. “What a kriffing shame.” Ren leans in, breathing hot air all along the left side of Fett’s neck and face. “You should probably spend the night training instead of kicking back wi--”

Whatever idiotic insult Kylo Ren was about to say dies in his throat. There is a soft hissing just in front of his blotchy face, and a bittersweet mist caressing his skin. He breathes in, startled into silence.

A beat passes in silence.

“Get off, mate,” Fett hisses.

And, indeed, Kylo Ren stands up, slightly disoriented, knees a little wobbly.

By the time Fett collects himself, Ren has retreated to a bench scarcely three steps away at the edge of the mat. Fett comes toward him to see that he is flushed and already beginning to sweat anew.

Tendons leap taut against the skin of his neck as a shiver passes through his body. He looks like he’s experiencing something like a fever. His voice, always thick and smooth like curdled cream, strains as he grits his teeth. “What the fuck have you done to me?”

Fett only stares with contempt down at his master, his lightly accented voice tripping over the provocation like so much blood over stones. “Only what you’ve been begging me to do for the last two weeks.”

Fett reaches out a gloved hand to cup the back of Kylo Ren’s skull, hot and shaking, feeling fragile as an egg in his palm. His fingers twist to find purchase. He steps toward him at the exact moment that he wrenches his fist downward. Kylo Ren makes startled noise of pain and _want_ , his exposed throat vibrating with it under Fett’s calculating eye.

He hauls Kylo Ren up from the bench to stand and retrieves his commlink with his free hand.

“Time to go to the temple,” he says into it, “got sick of waiting.”

 

\--

Fett drags Kylo Ren by the hair down a quick succession of hallways. He can hear Kylo panting as they go, nearing a whine with each step.

The “temple” is practically a ruin, perfectly suited to the game Fett and the knights are about to play: formerly holy to Kylo’s mind, echoey, and more than a little dark and dank.

Fett drops his master in the center of a great stone dias, around which stand a few mismatched altars. Kylo goes to his knees with a dull crack and Fett recedes to lean against a hip-high stone slab with drainage slots that have likely seen many small rivers of blood. Possibly cum, too. Appropriate, he thinks.

Juris comes in first, with Pictus and Tel-Kor close behind. They form a loose circle around Kylo, only two or three steps out from him, except for Pictus, who descends eagerly on his prone master. He knocks Kylo back to his elbows.

“Got at least two doses in him,” Fett says, “but there’s plenty for us.”

Pictus straddles him now, taking his shirt in knobby fingers and tearing the synthcloth in a ragged split up the middle. He hasn’t had any of the drug yet but seems plenty worked-up without it. He pulls the shirt away from Kylo’s chest and those same grubby fingers stake a claim on the exposed flesh. “Gonna fuck your tits this time, _Commander_ ,” he says, “think you’ll like that.”

“Fuck,” Kylo says, breathless and sensitive as Pictus thumbs over his nipples. The callouses catch and it feels cruel that he keeps doing it, cruel and _good_.

“Spray a line for me, Fett,” Pictus says, mouth and nose twitching as he appraises Ren’s soft, naked chest. He squeezes Kylo’s pectorals together. “Right here, right up the middle.”

Crouching above Kylo Ren’s head, Fett complies, leaning over so his crotch brushes the sweat-slick skin of his master’s forehead. He sprays the canister into the valley down the center of Kylo Ren’s chest and Pictus descends on it, snorting up his dose greedily.

He comes up and licks across Kylo’s face, up from the corner of his mouth to the jut of his left cheekbone. His fingers squeeze and knead Kylo’s chest, using a thumb to swipe up the excess green film left on his sternum.

“Come on baby,” he mutters, placing his thumb over Kylo’s lips, “suck on it for me.” He smears the grimy digit around, forcing it through Ren’s lips to rest against his teeth. “You got a lotta cocks to suck, better limber up, huh?”

There is a look of absolutely _delicious_ indignation on Ren’s face as he acquiesces, letting Pictus shove his thumb inside where it massages the bitter mixture of blaster oil and pheromone onto his tongue.

Kylo’s lips remain slack around his open mouth and Pictus frowns, shoving his thumb hard towards the back of his throat. Kylo gags and coughs as Pictus presses on the sensitive muscle. “I told you to suck on it,” he hisses, lowering his face inches in front of Kylo’s. “Don’t be a fucking tease.”

Juris backhands Pictus across the temple. “Stop monopolizing the goods, skidmark ” she says, grabbing him by his scant grey and brown hair. “Get off or _get off_ , those are the rules”

Pictus withdraws his thumb from Kylo Ren’s mouth, trailing spittle down his already trembling chin. He sits back a little, grinding his skinny ass against Ren’s crotch, and reaches out a hand to Tel-Kor to help him back up. “Let’s get his pants off,” Pictus says to Juris.

“Finally,” she says, dropping to a crouch between Ren’s knees, “we agree on something.”

Kylo and Juris make quick work of the tight leggings. But when he reaches for the band of his shorts underneath, Juris wraps a strong hand around his wrist and flings it aside, pinning it to the floor. Kylo groans and throws his head back, working his hips fruitlessly against the air. His cock is already hard against his hip and leaking milky precum into the synthcloth of his underwear.

“Juris,” he implores, voice uncharacteristically thin, “please, take them off. Let me take them off. I need you to touch it.”

“This?” She questions, drawing the clawed tip of her forefinger feather-light along the underside of his cock. “You want me to touch this?”

“Fuck-- Force, _please_.”

Juris slaps her palm down hard on Ren’s stomach and he cries out in pain and shocked disappointment. She says, “Up, on your hands and knees.”

He complies and his body shakes all over as he does. _Kriff, he wants it bad_ , Juris thinks, listening to the notoriously proud Kylo Ren whine at the friction of his prick rubbing against his own wet smallclothes.

She takes Kylo’s chin in her smooth, scaled fingers and turns his head toward where Fett is leaning against the altar. “Why don’t you go thank the man who’s responsible for this, hmm? Crawl on over, like you know he likes.”

And yeah, Fett thinks, as Ren turns on all fours and begins coming toward him, he does like it. Kylo’s hair falls over his pale, beauty-marked face, casting deeper shadows over the boxer’s bridge of his long nose. His shoulders shake as he tries to take deeper breaths. The muscles of his chest jump as he shifts his weight from one arm to the other, slow and obedient and so, so soft for him, all smooth hairless skin and smooth keloid scars.

And, _shit,_ yeah, Fett _really_ likes this bit.

“Sit,” Fett says when Kylo reaches him. He obeys, sitting back on his haunches like an akk dog waiting for a command. “Go ahead.”

Massive hands grasp desperately at the canvas cloth of his trousers and Fett’s prick twitches in his pants at the warmth, knowing what comes next. Nonetheless, he keeps his composure, thick arms crossed over his chest, a picture of impassivity.

He can tell by the look in his watery brown eyes that Ren is wounded by this. He looks away, embarrassed, and sets to opening Fett’s pants, a hot blush working up his chest towards his face. When he finally frees Fett’s half hard cock Kylo hums, pleased, before wrapping his lips around it.

Behind his wide back, Pictus gasps. He has a hand stuffed down his own dirty pants, already waking himself from spice-induced flaccidity on nothing but the image of Kylo Ren crouching before his second-in-command. Tel-Kor notices this and wraps an arm around Pictus from behind, trailing fingers up under the hem of his shirt and leaning down to whisper what Fett is sure are hot insults in his ear.

Ren is sloppy as he sucks Fett off. He’s salivating more than usual, spit welling up on the back of his tongue and dripping from red lips onto Fett’s canvas and synthleather boots. No one is touching him, but he’s moaning like he’s being fucked. And maybe should be, Fett thinks, bringing his hands up to thread back through that now sweat-moist hair.

Even without being asked, even without pressure, Kylo sinks down to the base of Fett’s cock. He gags as he takes him with short, bouncing sucks, eyes flickering up to meet Fett’s. His throat pulses around him, hot and velvet and frantic. He blinks and blinks, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, unable to breathe around it, becoming more desperate for air with each suck.

Relief is evident in Kylo’s smoothed brows as he pulls back with a gasp.

But Fett grits his teeth after only two open-mouthed breaths and slams Kylo’s face back to his hips. He holds him firm and still against his pelvis, muttering, “Swallow. Again. Come on, you want me to come on your face?”

Kylo whimpers around him, eyes screwing shut as he tries to suppress his gag reflex.

Across the stone floor, Pictus makes a sound like he’s being strangled as he comes into Tel-Kor’s large, calloused hand. If he had looked up, Fett would have seen some of it splatter against the front of Pictus’ pants and seen how Tel-Kor’s other, mechanical hand loosened and snaked away from the smaller man’s throat.

Fett counts it out in his head, ten seconds, twenty. A few more seconds of Kylo’s pulsing tongue and throat and he’ll be done, just a few more.

But Ren brings his hands back up and pushes himself away, gasping as he pops off and trying not to heave up his lunch on the floor of the temple.

“Some cocksucker you are,” Fett says, grasping Ren’s hair at the front again with one hand and taking his prick in the other. “Open up.”

Fett takes himself in hand, so slick from Ren’s saliva and his own precum that his hand makes loud, liquid sounds as he strokes.

He jerks himself to the image before him: Kylo Ren’s upturned face, flushed and pink, his wet eyes rimmed in red, and his plush mouth hanging open, soft tongue resting against his crooked bottom teeth. It doesn’t take long until Fett’s balls tighten and he starts to twitch in his hand. At the last second, he shoves the head into Ren’s mouth and spills there. Hot cum pooling on his warm, twitching tongue.

Ren stays like that, a few errant strands pulling from his mouth towards the ground. In a moment of post-load-blow tenderness, Fett thumbs his chin gently and shuts his eyes. “No swallowing, now. You wait ‘til I give the word. Got it?”

Fett opens his eyes again to meet Ren’s staring intently back. No need to nod, he understands.

“No closing, either. If you spill, you spill.”

Juris kicks a heel gently on the stone floor. “Looks like Tel-Kor has something for you,” she says and his gaze tracks to follow hers. Together they watch Tel-Kor lick his wide palm clean and approach them, squatting in front of Juris, before the panting Ren.

A droplet of sweat falls from his brow, tracing the full curve of a high cheekbone and hanging momentarily from the edge of his jaw. Tel-Kor guides Kylo’s face with a single, mechanized finger. Always surprisingly gentle like this, the zabrak moves his lips across Kylo’s slowly. He opens them slowly, careful not to spill a drop, and passes the bitter remains of Pictus’ cum between them with a rolling push of his tongue. Pulling away, Tel-Kor takes Kylo’s bottom lip between his teeth and pulls, just a little. Just enough to make him close his eyes and make his body bow towards Juris and Tel-Kor like a lily towards the light.

There’s a crashing, and Antur comes in now, wearing a loose tunic and liquid blood on his face. His thick-soled boots make a dull sound on the ground.

“Started without me? Pricks.”

He is not wearing pants.

“She told you to finish, Antur,” Fett chastises him. He is still leaning against the altar, but he’s loose now and his voice is softer, breathier.

Juris looks at Fett from the corner of her eye, black tongue peeking out to lick at her lips. Her breath is coming faster now, too, mind already on the next round.

Antur Ren crosses the room, sauntering past Kylo -- still naked on the floor. He bumps his chest against Fett’s. “Looks like you already did, selfish ass.” His low-class Coruscanti accent cuts across the words.

Fett rolls his eyes. “Don’t be a shit because you’re jealous.” He reaches into his back pocket for a tin, cap still slippery from last time and holds it in his right hand. “Gonna to join in? Or are you gonna go have a sulk? Your choice.”

Antur sneers, deep creases forming in the corners of his angular jaw. He snatches the tin from Fett’s hand and unscrews the lid, pulling two fingers through the thick lubricant.

He screws the lid back on in a precise, delicate twist with ring and pinkie fingers and pockets the jelly. Kylo’s eyes follow him as Antur crosses the dias and comes to squat behind him, his barely-opened mouth coming to a suspicious, grimacing close.

Kylo looks over his shoulder through half-shut eyes. Antur smiles and slaps a smooth palm against his ass.

Without being told, Ren goes to his hands again, offering his ass Antur’s greedy fingers. Hissing through crooked teeth, Antur spreads the cheeks of Ren’s ass with the meat of his palms. He knows he’s untouched by how clean he is, but he can’t help himself from being rude about it.

“You let anyone else fuck you yet?” Antur throws another punishing slap. “You know I hate being sloppy seconds.” Slap. “Answer me.”

Kylo whimpers at that, wanting badly to tell him he hasn’t, that he would have waited if anyone had tried— but he doesn’t dare risk opening his mouth.

Fett meets Kylo’s eyes again and kriff, if that doesn’t set his skin prickling all over again.

“His mouth is occupied,” Fett says.

Antur looks to Fett, raising his brows.

“Figured it might be nice to shut him up. For a little while. Told him not to close it, though. Looks like he’s still a brat even when he can’t whine.”

Antur chuckles and brings his hand down on Ren’s ass again. With a cry, he opens his mouth again, spit and cum still mixed in a translucent puddle on his tongue.

At last, Antur smears the thick lubricant on this fingers into the cleft of Kylo’s ass, making him let out a long, low sound that sets Antur’s teeth on a pleasant edge. Fett watches Antur’s shoulders work beneath the opened band collar of his shirt. He rings a finger around Ren’s hole -- slow enough to be torturous and suspiciously considerate for what he usually likes.

Fett suspects what will come next and decides to dose himself to get through it. Antur’s brand of dirty talk is…

“You know what you look like from back here, Ren? Virgin pink. Like fresh skin--” he pushes a finger in all the way to the second knuckle and just starts _moving_ it “--that I just shaved myself--” a wet sucking sound, in and out “--so I could flay it.”

… _very_ dirty.

“Like you want me to open you up.”

And goddamn if that accent doesn’t just make it sound even dirtier.

Fett sucks in a breath from the canister, flicking a thumb to deactivate the fingerprint lock and tossing it to Juris who follows his lead.

Antur has his pointer finger buried in Ren’s ass. His voice shakes even as his hand stays surgeon-steady, turning so that he can press his thumb to Ren’s perineum as he continues. “Start back here, cut another hole to fuck you in. Once I was done with the first.”

Then he’s turning it palm up again, fucking roughly for a few strokes. He pulls out, gathers more lubricant onto it and his middle finger, and plunges them both inside.

Fett can tell that he’s reaching around now, the way he’s flipping his hand, hooking his fingers down and-- Ah! Kylo bucks his hips. There it is. Fett can’t tell in the low light, but he swears he sees something drip from between his legs onto the floor. His cock must be aching by this point, desperate for a hand or mouth or anything, really.

From the way that Kylo squeezes his eyes shut and keeps jerking against the air, Fett can tell Antur has moved past foreplay. He imagines the relentless pace of those fingers, so talented at cruelty. He imagines the pulsing, clenching, crushing heat that surrounds them.

Antur groans, clearly pleased. “Then your back,” he says, “wanna see those muscles work to make room for me. I bet the superficial fascia just glistens, doesn’t it? Golden boy. The way they feed and massage you.”

From where she leans against another stone table, Juris finally appears to be losing her composure. She’s blinking fast and unbuckling her ammunition belt with a deft, scaled hand. Pictus, too spent for another round yet but still obviously keyed-up, notices this and goes over to her. He mutters something Fett can’t make out against her cheek, prying her hand away from the waist of her black cargo pants and replacing it with his own. She sneers, but leans back on her elbows, letting Pictus work his fingers however he pleases. If he fucks up, she’ll make him pay for it. They all know this. He may fuck up anyways.

When Fett looks back to Antur, he’s pressing the head of his cock to Ren’s hole and Ren is making a warbling sound from the back of his throat, so desperate for it he’s almost cross-eyed.

Finally, Antur slides home and he and Kylo groan in unison. Antur works his jaw through the first two or three thrusts, slow but deep. Then his eyes roll back and close as he sets a punishing pace. His hands grip Ren’s massive hips with a certainty no one ought to have while fucking the most dangerous man in the galaxy.

Kylo is breathing so hard Fett can hear it, even over the sound of Pictus’ murmuring and his fingers working inside Juris’ trousers. Pictus meets Fett’s eyes and jerks his sharp chin away, towards Tel-Kor, who is staring Fett down like he’s about to tackle him to the ground. He looks minutely down to the canister that he holds in his left hand, then back up to Fett, beckoning him with a tilt of his chin.

And he’ll go, yeah, he’ll go over there in a second, he thinks blearily. But he’s rooted to the spot as one of Antur’s hands shoots out across the long expanse of Kylo’s back and buries itself in his wild, sweat-damp hair, jerking sharply upward.

The noise he makes -- a thick, low groan that reminds him of exactly how large and powerful and insanely _vulnerable_ Kylo Ren is in this moment -- has Fett’s mouth and throat going dry all over again and the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up.

Antur lets his head go, giving a deep moan and cursing, saying something else about muscle and blood that Fett barely hears at all because Kylo’s face is tilting, tilting, _tilting_ \-- And there it goes, a string of something wet and pearly and absolutely _dirty_ comes spilling from his mouth, dribbling to the ground with a sound Fett can imagine but doesn’t hear at all over the sound of blood rushing to his ears and the wet slap of Antur pounding into him.

Juris, who has been watching so intently from across the dias, just tuts.

“That’s time,” she says, voice tilting like Ren’s mouth, coming out sharp-edged and smug. “He dropped it.”

Antur groans again, this time in something between disappointment and delight, and slaps Kylo’s ass three times in quick succession before he pulls out harshly. Kylo whines at it, back and shoulders going rigid as he seeks for Antur’s cock, pressing back and back and back. Antur spanks him again in retaliation.

Antur snickers as he reaches forward for Ren’s head again. “You think you deserve this load?”

Mouth freed, Kylo makes his case. “Yes.”

 _Slap_. “When you’re so fucking disobedient?” _Slap._

“Yes!”

One last spank. “Tel-Kor, you’re still packing, right?”

“What kind of a fucking--”

“The gear, I mean the gear, you idiot.”

“If you got your head of out Ren’s ass, then maybe you’d have noticed--”

“Shut the fuck up, do you have the vibroknife?”

Tel-Kor sighs, but it’s shaky, a little excited. He’s trying his best to sound put-off, but Fett can tell that he’s not, not with what Antur has just put on the table. “Yeah, yeah I still have the fucking gear.”

Antur stands and makes a move to go to Tel-Kor, half-dragging Kylo along until he whines again.

“Bring him over here, first,” Juris says, pulling Pictus’ hand from her pants. “I’ve got some for him.”

Pictus looks put-off, no doubt imagining that it should be _his_ turn to service Juris, if only Ren weren’t such a miserably incompetent cumdumpster, but Juris gives him an affectionate slap to the cheek as she turns to tell him to go return the favor Tel-Kor paid him earlier. At the suggestion, he doesn’t look quite as put-off.

Antur does as Juris asked, pulling Kylo by the hair across the open space separating them. Kylo shakes on his knees, trying to pull up to walk, starting to drag a foot forward, but Antur tuts and pushes down with the hand fisted in his hair.

“Did I say you could walk?”

Kylo shuffles forward on hands and knees to indicate his assent, but Antur isn’t satisfied.

“Did I _say_ ,” he spits the word, jerking back, a venomous command that Kylo has no choice but to be halted by, “that you could walk?”

Everything is still as all eyes watch him, waiting for his response. This is one of Antur’s special and non-negotiable points: absolute submission under his rare occasion to command, physically, verbally, and spiritually. As much as Fett is grateful that he is rarely subject to it, he can’t help the tense heat it puts in him to witness, the way his cock stirs in sympathy or jealousy.

Kylo closes his eyes and Antur jerks his head again, demanding his gaze. Slowly, those feline eyes open again and trace Antur from his feet to his face. They land looking round and open, defiant but still supplicant, as he always looks.

“No,” he says, hoarsely.

“Then fucking crawl.”

Kylo repeats the shuffling motion, moving forward. Pulling against Antur’s grasp.

And at that, Antur can’t help but sigh a little in pleasure. His cock -- still wet from fucking Ren’s ass -- tents his tunic, smearing precome and lubricant on the fabric. Fett doesn’t have to scrutinize, he knows these stains are only the newest among many already there.

They walk up to Juris slowly, deliberately, and once there Antur doesn’t so much release Kylo as pass him off into Juris’ capable hand. She weaves her fingers between Antur’s fingers and into Kylo’s hair. And Antur, bad-tempered but loyal to his team, moves to take her bluish lips in a hungry kiss. They lean into each other, pushing and pulling in a rhythm not too unlike the one Antur had been setting a minute ago, and poor Ren is caught in the middle.

He’s left at hip height, licking and sucking at the skin of Juris’ stomach just above her waistband, desperate for the attention they’re so intentionally denying him.

It’s Antur who eventually pulls back, letting Juris and Kylo go in one smooth motion with a self-satisfied expression, like he doesn’t love giving them what they want just as much as he loves denying them.

And despite her earlier coolness, Juris isn’t wasting any time anymore.

“Pull them off,” she orders, voice low.

Ren scrabbles to comply.

In less time than it takes for Antur to get _his_ hands on Tel-Kor -- one wrapped around the handle of the vibroblade he was promised, one cupping the bulge beginning to form in the Zabrak’s trousers -- Kylo Ren has his face buried in Juris’ smooth, shining cunt.

She groans as he works his tongue over her, the sticky sound of it bringing a broad grin to her face. His nose disappears between her outer lips, her fluids quickly covering almost every inch of his face from his cheekbones down. Fett can imagine him eagerly trying to please her despite his limited finesse at this stage. She doesn’t have a clitoris like a human woman, a fact Fett knows from experience, but she loves it when he fucks into her with his tongue and runs the edges of his teeth along her skin. Something about the hard sensation and mating rituals the details of which none of them have been brave enough to ask. Not that she hasn’t told them anyways.

For example--

Ren makes a sound low in his chest, strangled and slightly choked, and Fett watches as his bare throat works like there’s something stuck in it. Juris has her hands buried in his hair and starts to move his face back and forth like she’s fucking it with a cock. Which, in a manner of speaking, she is.

She pulls Kylo back, a wriggling appendage of a scandalous length revealing itself as he does. _Shit_ , Fett thinks, slightly breathless at the sight, _must have been about halfway down to his stomach_. Ren squeezes his eyes shut and takes the initiative, forcing himself back down. He makes another choking sound and Juris trills in a way that reminds Fett of that kind of high, excited moan Pictus sometimes gives when Fett is balls-deep in him and just picked up the pace like he’s been begging for.

“Go ahead,” Juris says, eyes flicking down from Kylo’s eyes to his hands, fisted desperately against his thighs. “I’m not that selfish. Go ahead and touch yourself.”

He does, and the only thing better than the sound he makes is the way he has to make it through his mouth, stretched open in every direction by the thick, slippery length occupying it. He starts to stroke in earnest and Juris doesn’t even need to guide him anymore, he’s sucking and slurping like there’s nothing else on the planet he’s better at, like maybe if he gets her off hard enough he’ll come, too.

He’s staring so hard -- watching her face in a mix between devotion and desperation -- that Fett can feel it like electricity in the air. Every time she meets his gaze it’s like it sets him on fire, making him work her faster and messier, moaning with each pass of his hand and cant of her hips.

“Fuck,” Juris breathes, “love to see you like this. Choking on me like you’re made for it, so hard just to have me wriggling down your throat. The only fucking reason I put up with you, to see you like this, knowing I’ll get to do it again.”

And with that, he’s practically keening, pushing himself to try and take her all the way to where her cock disappears back into her opening, her wetness smearing all across his red and strained face, dripping down his chin and onto his chest. Juris shudders and tenses in response as Kylo chokes and his cock spurts in his hand, hot jets of cum splattering on his naked torso, tensed thighs, and Juris’ boots in the process.

Juris leans back and lets out a groan so loud and so long that it catches all of their attention. With a last weak thrust of her hips she finishes, spilling as she pulls him off of her, and something thick and glowing lands in his mouth and on his face, flushed and slack with relief. A line of it lands across his large nose and drips, slowly towards his mouth.

Juris moves her hand where it’s buried in his hair, scratching a little at his scalp in an approving gesture. “So fucking good for me.”

“Mm,” is all Kylo says in response, licking whatever of her bioluminescent cum he can reach with his tongue.

“You ready for the big boy?”

He nods, bleary-eyed and clearly still a little dizzy from his orgasm.

“Tel-Kor!” Juris shouts, her hand still scratching affectionately at Kylo’s hair.

Tel-Kor grunts in response from where he stands, legs spread, with Pictus kneeling before him and Antur directing the action at his side.

Juris swipes her tongue from one corner of her mouth to the other and looks down to meet Kylo’s eyes. “Your turn with him -- think you’re warmed up enough?”

Tel-Kor laughs and makes to move, but Pictus seems unwilling to give him up so soon, reaching up to grasp at his thick thighs and taking him all the way to the base with a jealous whine. This only makes Tel-Kor laugh harder.

Antur, however, seems displeased. He puts the vibroblade between his teeth and uses the hand that was holding it to grab the hair Pictus hasn’t shaved off on one side of his head. “Greedy slut,” he says down to Pictus with a cruel smile. “Insatiable. Wait your turn.” He pulls Pictus off Tel-Kor’s cock slowly and Pictus lays his tongue down flat as he does, clearly still trying to struggle forward.

“Fett,” Antur calls, “come deal with him. Little fucker needs to be restrained.”

Fett, a little better rested now, kicks a boot off the ground to stand and go to where Antur has hauled Pictus to slightly shaky feet.

At the same time, Tel-Kor, having finally extricated himself from Pictus’ overly enthusiastic mouth, saunters the short few meters over to where Juris holds Kylo and squats before him.

Despite everything he’s done so far and how absolutely wrecked he looks, Kylo pretends to bare his teeth, puts up a show of resistance for his or Tel-Kor’s titillation.

“You going to try to fuck me, too? You think you can actually shoot this time?”

Tel-Kor ignores the question, but smiles a little, a lopsided grin. Almost sweetly, he asks, “You afraid you’re getting dry? Open up. I want a nice wet mouth on my cock.”

When Kylo doesn’t immediately comply, Tel-Kor takes his jaw in a hand actually large enough to span it and tugs a little. It wouldn’t be enough to do anything if Kylo were truly resisting, but his mouth drops open.

Tel-Kor leans in and spits in it.

“There we go,” he says as he stands and shoves his trousers down again, revealing the shining top of one mechno leg and one ordinary one. “Get to work.”

Kylo does.

Fett is a little disappointed that he can’t see Ren’s mouth in profile anymore as he slides up and down Tel-Kor’s short, thick length, but the truth is he’s got enough to worry about. He’s got a wriggling Pictus clutched in his arms, one wrapped around his scrawny torso and the other tight at his throat. Juris takes it easy, sitting loose-limbed on the nearest altar as she just enjoys the show, but Antur stands before Pictus with the vibroknife unsheathed and an absolutely _wicked_ look on his face. Without activating it, he uses the blade to ruin what’s left of Pictus’ clothes and leaves him as naked as Ren except for his soft-soled boots.

“You gonna do it this time?” Pictus’ voice is stretched thin from excitement and possibly lack of air. “You gonna skin me?”

Antur trails the tip of the stilled blade from Pictus’ collarbone down to his hip where one hand already grips it, rubbing hard circles into his knobby hipbone. “You should be so lucky.”

Removing and efficiently resheathing the blade, Antur withdraws and leaves Fett with a short instruction to, “choke him, but not quite ‘til he passes out. I want him ready to bust by the time I’m done over there.”

Happening to hear that is all the warning Kylo gets before Antur is behind him, gripping his hips and pulling back hard enough that he falls face-first into Tel-Kor’s groin. He grunts and probably swallows in shock from the noise of appreciation Tel-Kor makes in response.

With little preamble, Antur sets out pressing the long, bowie-knife handle of the vibroblade into Kylo’s hole. Just like before, it’s surprisingly easy and has Kylo moaning high and long as Antur starts to work it again.

“There you go,” Antur says, “that’s what you wanted, isn’t it? You like it even better than a fist.”

Fett tightens and loosens his grip on Pictus’ throat rhythmically, replaying the memory Antur’s words bring up. He finds it hard to imagine it’s true, but the way Kylo keeps moaning makes him think maybe it is. With all the shit they do, why not.

It goes on like this, the wet sounds of Kylo getting both of his holes fucked by his subordinates mingling with those of Juris starting to finger herself where she sits, pants abandoned to the floor, on the altar. Then, too, the soft sound of Antur spitting into his free palm and the quick _shlck-shlck-shlck_ ing of him jerking himself off over Kylo’s back. Like the most disgusting symphony in the galaxy.

For all of his stoicism, Fett can’t help but smile. It’s not an easy job he does, but the perks are probably worth it.

In any case, it’s unsurprising that it takes Antur less than a minute to finish. He aims high, painting Kylo’s back in pearlescent splatters of cum and even manages to get a little in his absolutely wrecked hair. The contrast of the white on black is striking. Antur says as much, out-of-breath and clearly pleased with himself.

Fett takes it back, the perks are _definitely_ worth it.

“Get him up,” Antur says a second later, already rising to his feet, “put him on the altar.”

Tel-Kor groans as he pulls Kylo off, but it’s not a hard thing to do, since he seemed to be just barely rocking back and forth with his mouth hanging open, too distracted by the knife-handle working in and out of his ass to give a proper blowjob.

In an unusual show of kindness, Antur removes that, too, as they haul Kylo to his feet and set him on the altar on his back. It’s not long, only a little longer than his massive torso, so his ass is nearly hanging off the edge even when Tel-Kor pulls him so his head hangs over the other side.

“You still wanna fuck his tits?” Fett asks Pictus, his nose grazing his captive’s neck in a way that makes him shiver in Fett’s arms.

“Yeah,” he says, hoarse and slack-jawed, “fuck, yeah, so much.”

“You think you should be allowed to?”

Pictus grunts. “Probably not.”

Fett releases Pictus’ neck and gives his cheek an affectionate slap. “That’s a good boy.”

Pictus laughs a little, a strange and obscene sound in-context, soft and mischevous. “Does that mean you’re gonna let me?”

“Not gonna stop you.” Fett releases him and gives him a little shove forwards.

Pictus tries to appear nonchalant as he crosses the space, but he’s so obviously keyed-up and so hard in his pants that it’s practically hilarious. His steps are a little lopsided, a little too jaunty, that Fett almost laughs at him. _Almost_.

Less humorous is the way Pictus shucks his pants off and climbs with a manic concentration up onto the altar and Kylo’s chest. He’s straddling him like he did when they first got here, laying his cock between Kylo’s generous pecs. He squeezes the flesh between his fingers, hissing all the while.

“Which you wanna hold?” He asks, already jerking his hips a little back and forth. “Your tits or my cock?”

Kylo groans and skims his hands up his sides, bringing them to his chest, which he does his best to look down at despite the strain and strange angle.

With such long fingers, it’s not that hard for him to do both. Delighted, Pictus bends over -- one hand above each of Kylo’s broad shoulders -- and watches intently as he starts to fuck into Kylo’s chest in earnest. Fett catches a glint of light as he lets a gob of spit drip slowly from his lips onto his cock, muttering something about what a used-up slut Kylo is to be so dry.

Ever-helpful and observant, Tel-Kor presses Kylo’s head up with his hips and hands so that he can reach with his tongue towards where Pictus is thrusting furiously between the plush muscles of his chest, the channel there quickly becoming slick with Pictus’ spit and precum. The angle looks excruciating from where Fett stands, but Kylo works gamely, sucking and licking at the end of each thrust Pictus makes, only able to wrap his lips around the head of his cock for a half a second at a time. It’s gloriously messy and wet and he keeps making these little gasping sounds as he tries to suck but loses his hold over and over.

The sound seems to go to Pictus’ head when he yanks Kylo’s hands away and starts jerking himself with a tense arm, the other going down to balance him over Kylo’s chest and slipping a little every few seconds. Kylo, looking up through his lashes, reaches up to grip at Pictus’ hips with both hands, rocking him a little over his chest, and it seems like that’s what does it. Broad hands, finally gripping back.

It’s no secret, after all, Fett thinks. Pictus has always liked getting manhandled.

When he finally comes, it’s with a fucked up groan that sounds like a guy who’s just had the shit beat out of him and a few weak but valiant spurts that land on Kylo’s collarbones, neck, and just a little on his lips. They’re both breathing hard, painting a pretty compelling picture of momentary pause, when Fett’s attention is drawn to a sudden loud buzzing sound at the other end of the table.

While they were all distracted by the show up front, Antur has worked the handle of the vibroknife back into Kylo and waited patiently for this, the perfect moment to switch the fucker on.

The effect is powerful and immediate. Kylo starts writhing, bucking up into the air behind where Pictus straddles him, and thrashing his head back into Tel-Kor’s abdomen as he moans out something that might have been a plea if he were more lucid.

And to his credit (or maybe the credit of Fett’s black market dealer), Kylo is already impressively hard again, cock visibly filling as the vibroknife handle buzzes inside him relentlessly.

Fett shoves at Pictus, trying to get him off so _he_ can finally help get their commander off. And stars bless him, the idiot goes over like a wet tissue in a breeze, barely managing to clamber onto the floor with Antur’s exasperated help without falling. Leaning over from the side, Fett wastes no time putting his mouth and hands to work.

He starts off easy, just sucking lightly at the head of Ren’s cock and using a careful finger to press down on the cortosis sheith of the vibroknife. It seems to be more than enough. Kylo bucks again, less out of an attempt to fuck Fett’s face and more because he just can’t control himself that much longer. Fett bumps the vibroknife again.

Kylo whines like he’s working up to a scream and it’s a bit awkward from this angle, but Fett does his best to suck harder and take him deeper. He’s done such a good job with them today, letting them get up to all kinds of trouble on him and in him and taking it all with that delicious fucked-out pout he just can’t avoid. He’s been a real treat, a real good boy. It’s only fair that Fett should make sure he comes so hard he sees stars.

So that’s what he does, humming and trying to swallow around Kylo’s admittedly huge cock, using a hand when it’s necessary to fist the base or give his balls a gentle squeeze, keeping them away from the vibrating handle of the blade where a little bit is still visible before the crossguard.

Kylo’s whole body convulses, long, thick back arching inches off the altar and the muscles of his thighs twitching madly under Fett’s free hand. He spills into Fett’s mouth hot and salty and _long_ , so long that Fett instantly knows it’s probably been weeks since he’s even jerked off. He’d been waiting for them all along. A _very_ good boy.

When he’s finally done, his cock only just barely twitching on Fett’s tongue, Fett pulls off gingerly, careful not to spill any of the cum he’s managed not to swallow.

He moves up Kylo’s body and lets his hands follow, giving good, solid touches up his belly and chest, not minding where they drag through the mess Pictus made a minute ago.

At last, he makes it up to Kylo’s face and takes it in both hands, lining their mouths up carefully before giving it back to him -- a mess of spit and still-warm, bitter cum that he smears onto Kylo’s tongue with soft strokes of his own. He takes his time, enjoying the feeling of Kylo’s pliant mouth on his, responsive and appreciative of the tenderness after so much hard play.

Somewhere below them, someone reaches over and turns off the vibroknife and guides it out, letting it clatter to the floor. Fett can feel the relief of it wash all the way through Kylo’s body.

Afterwards, Fett pulls back, also careful, and they breathe together. Him and Kylo, but Juris and Tel-Kor and Antur and Pictus, too. They take a minute as Kylo goes boneless on the altar, long, strong limbs finally releasing their tension and extending back out. His legs hang off the table, feet dangling in a gentle point towards the floor. His head starts to roll back, but Tel-Kor catches him, gently this time, in a wide palm and Fett and Juris help him scoot down a little, so he can rest it on the tabletop while he decompresses. Pictus comes up to lay his calloused hands surprisingly softly on Kylo’s thighs and Juris leans in to give him a soft kiss on his temple.

“Alright,” Antur says from somewhere nearby, “you’re alright.”

“You were so good,” Juris says.

“Fucking incredible,” Pictus adds from between his legs. “Can’t believe you let me do that.”

Kylo’s got his eyes closed and his lips pressed together hard as he breathes in and out of his nose deeply, but Fett knows all the little tics and twitches of his face by now and that tense quirk between his nose and lip -- that might as well be a smile.

Fett strokes the side of his neck slowly, firmly, trying to work out a little of the tension that remains there always, even after these sessions that leave him otherwise loose and relaxed. It’ll only fade for a day or two before it comes back, but it’s worth it to Kylo, to all of them, really.

He thinks he’s all-powerful, commanding. He thinks he’s inviolable, his own thoughts secret and unknowable. And maybe he can be when he has to, but he doesn’t have to. Not all the time. Not with them.

It’s stupid and noble, Fett thinks, looking around at the six of them all naked and disgusting and close to happy, but it’s still kind of noble. For a bunch of assholes and killers, it’s maybe even something special.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW!!!!! WE DID IT GUYS! now go hit the showers and make sure to get a good drink of water!!!!


End file.
